


And That's Just Facts

by dreamlittleyo



Series: Facts [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Coda, Episode Related, Episode: s03e05 Bedtime Stories, M/M, Sibling Incest, Wincest - Freeform, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, Wordcount: 100-2.000, Wordcount: Over 1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-06
Updated: 2011-04-06
Packaged: 2017-10-17 16:06:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A coda to <i>Bedtime Stories</i>. Sam is slipping, but there are lines he's still not crossing (if barely).<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	And That's Just Facts

The doctor walks away, disappears down the hall, and Sam feels it coming even before Dean speaks.

"You know, what he said… That's some good advice."

"Is that what you want me to do, Dean? Just let you go?" Sam's eyes burn hot with the question, and Dean won't look at him for too long a stretch, both their eyes embarrassingly wet when they reconnect.

The question is useless, because that's _exactly_ what Dean wants, and they both know it. Apparently he's got enough sense not to say it out loud. Doesn't stop Sam wanting to punch him in his hypocritical face.

Hours later, he doesn't feel remorse when he shoots the Crossroads Demon in the head. Not the way he should. There's still a human being in there somewhere, a heart still alive and beating, and Sam ends her right alongside the Red-Eyed Bitch.

He thinks maybe he sees what's going on now, some tiny inkling of the bigger picture. He sees his own desperation, surreal from a fuzzy distance, sees his need to save Dean like an ember smoldering in his chest. He'll cross lines to save his brother, every goddamn line there is, and that's really the bitch of it. It's got nothing to do with demon's blood, nothing to do with destiny, or special powers, or being some sort of satanic anti-savior in the making.

It's the way black and white bleed to tumultuous gray wherever Dean is involved. Dean will trade his soul to hell so Sam can live? Fine. Sam's willing to walk the line sending his own there the old-fashioned way if it means getting him out of it. He suspects he was on his way to begin with, nothing to do with demon's blood and _everything_ to do with the things he wants from his brother.

Not that Dean ever gets to know. One last line that Sam's fighting not to cross, and god be damned if it's not harder with each passing day. The lines keep blurring, and every repetitive fight between them, every shouting match about breaking Dean's deal, makes it worse.

He steps back into the room as silent as he left it, a pointless effort because he's been gone too long. Dean is slumped on the edge of the bed closest to the door, head buried in his hands. It lasts for all of an instant before he straightens and locks furious eyes on Sam.

"Where were you?" Sam can hear echoes of quiet rage in the words as he tosses his bag aside and rolls his shoulders wearily.

"Nowhere," he mutters. No way it'll end the discussion, but he tries anyway.

"Sam," says Dean, voice dark with warning as he stands and does his best to loom.

"No," Sam says, cuts his brother off, because whatever else is coming he doesn't want to hear it. "We're not having this fight again."

"The hell we're not," Dean snarls. His voice rises, eyes darkening, and Sam feels something tighten in his chest as his brother continues, "We're _having_ this fight until you get it through your skull that you can't--"

"Fuck you, Dean. You don't get to make this call!" He can feel it bubbling inside him, starting somewhere deep and seeping through his veins. Dean is sleep disheveled, still bedecked in t-shirt and boxers, but with eyes wide and alert in the light of one lamp.

"It's _my_ call to make!" Dean growls, edges closer. "I'm not watching you die again, Sam. And _you'll_ do what I goddamn _say_ , or--"

Sam doesn't cut him off with words, because words never work. He grabs Dean by the shirt instead, tight fistfuls of fabric that he uses to spin and slam his brother against the bureau behind them. His sympathetic cringe at the impact is wholly internal, the rest of him focused and busy using his body to pin Dean tight.

"Enough," Sam says, suddenly quiet, doesn't need volume to talk over the startled expression that's the only thing left of Dean's angry tirade. Sam's words are slow and deliberate as he all but hisses, "I don't give a rats ass whose call you think this is. You made your bargain. Fine. You don't get to play anymore. It's my turn."

"Sam--" Dean warns, anger creeping back into his voice.

Sam still doesn't want to hear it. Goddamn none of it when Dean _knows_ he's being a hypocrite and a jackass, and Sam closes his palm heavily over his brother's mouth to force him silent. Dean's lips move startled against his skin, his throat shifting in a reflexive swallow, and Sam's mouth goes dry.

"You can't control me, Dean," says Sam, letting the edge of something darker color his voice. "And you'll regret it if you try."

Dim as the room is, Sam can still see everything clearly. Can still see the white of Dean's knuckles as he clutches desperate at the wood behind him. When Sam draws his hand away, it's a beat too late and a lot too slow, and when Dean licks his lips Sam knows he's screwed. He's still pressed against Dean _everywhere_ , and now that the fury is siphoning off him, there's room for other things. Things that leave him vulnerable to the heat of his brother's body; leave him distracted and wanting and fighting to remind himself that there are lines he isn't crossing.

He's not quick enough to pull away, to keep Dean from feeling the evidence that certain parts of Sam's anatomy are suddenly interested in the proceedings, and when Sam curses and turns aside it's not so fast as to miss the wide-eyed uncertainty on his brother's face.

Neither of them moves or speaks for an agonizing stretch of minutes. Sam keeps his back deliberately turned, doesn't want to see the inevitable disgust, and Dean holds silent behind him. It should be enough to drive his libido into the ground, kill his erection dead, but his blood still burns with want and no sign of abatement.

"Sam, come on," says Dean, voice straining to sound light. "It's no big deal. It's just--"

Sam is on him again in seconds, ire quick to erupt, and his hands grasp for purchase to pull Dean flush against him.

"It's just _what_ , Dean?" he asks, rocking once, deliberate, and Dean has to grab at Sam's shirt to maintain his balance. "I've got a hard-on for my _brother_ , and that's no big deal?"

Dean looks away instead of answering, and Sam gives a harsh shove that sends him crashing back against the drawers of the bureau. Sam's not angry anymore. Terrified, guilty, utterly disgusted with himself. But not angry. Not at Dean. Not right this moment when Dean is in the middle of realizing that his little brother is a secret pervert.

Sam is all caught up in the train wreck of the moment, jagged and messy and staring at the floor, which means he doesn't see it coming until Dean's lips are already on his. Sudden and slick and open, and Sam's tongue is stabbing its way into Dean's mouth before he's even caught up with the realization that this is a _kiss_. That Dean is _kissing_ him, hands buried in Sam's hair, lips parted in preemptive surrender, and Sam doesn't know what it means, but he takes it anyway. Growls into his brother's mouth as his hands drag Dean close, and for just a second this is _his_.

But reality returns with a vengeance, sends him stumbling back and away. He can't stop staring, the brief intensity of the kiss transforming Dean from sleep-tousled brother to debauched angel, and Sam's heart lurches in his chest. He can see so much in his brother's eyes, read him clear and perfect in an unguarded instant. Terror, desperation, anger, guilt, all crashing and conflicting, a million different emotions at messy odds and Sam can read them all.

All but lust, _want_ , and Sam knows it's because they aren't there to see. Dean doesn't want this. Doesn't want it, and is offering himself up like some kind of sacrifice _anyway_ , and now he's waiting for Sam's next move. Still ready and willing, and Sam knows if he steps back in Dean will let him take it. Let Sam kiss him, hold him, _fuck_ him. Use him right up and who knows what will be left after, and god, but Sam still wants to.

But Dean is watching him with wary eyes, and Sam knows he can't. Which maybe makes him feel more human than he has in weeks, and _that's_ just jacked all to hell.

"No," he says, feels almost confident in the words. "You don't… that's not what I want from you, Dean." But it's terrifyingly close, and Sam wonders how long he'll give a shit about the difference.

They both crawl awkwardly into their separate beds, and neither of them sleeps. Too much in the air around them now, and Sam's thoughts whirl and churn. He still wants this 'boy King' mess to sound like bullshit. Too many pieces missing, and he's got to believe he's got a say in the outcome.

But he knows he isn't strong enough. If his destiny catches up with them, he's taking Dean down with him.

And that's just facts.


End file.
